Reciprocal Function
by V. Laike
Summary: Charlie had seen victim photos before . . . but never had he felt the deep, gutwrenching helplessness he'd experienced when he viewed these.


As always, these characters were created by and belong to people far more ambition and enterprising than I, namely Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci, and the folks at Scott Free Productions, Barry Schindel, CBS Paramount Network Television, CBS Studios, Inc., and whoever else appears in the parade of logos or can provide documents of ownership. No infringement is intended. This is intended as a small homage to their wonderfully intelligent decision to bring us _Numb3rs_ and its characters and concepts. Many thanks.

Many thanks, also, to izhilzha, who insisted this get written.

RECIPROCAL FUNCTION

by

V. Laike

* * *

Sam Titchell.

Charlie stared at himself in the mirror above the men's room sink.

The fourth-grade bully was the living nightmare of a third-grade Charlie. But Titchell had been scared to death of Charlie's seventh-grade brother. Then came the day when Don didn't walk Charlie home, and "Twitch"ell started a fight. When Charlie had finally had enough, when he was angry enough, he started fighting back. He was not going to let this overgrown twit push him around anymore. He'd even landed a couple of clumsy punches before Dad came to break things up.

Did Don have a chance to fight back during the four days he was missing? During the ninety-six hours Charlie had spent running algorithms—the 5,760 minutes he'd spent diagramming geographic probability patterns, the 345,600 seconds he'd spent fighting to make the numbers work for him instead of remembering that "the first twenty-four hours are golden; after that, it's quicksand"—did Don have a chance to defend himself? Charlie had seen victim photos before; he'd seen pictures of murder victims, of rape victims, of pornography victims. Such photos always elicited a reaction in him, whether it was appalled shock or profound sympathy or a moment of intense anger at man's inhumanity to man . . . but never had he felt the deep, gut-wrenching helplessness he'd experienced when he viewed the photos of Don taken at the hospital. The broken nose and fractured jaw. The facial bruising and split lips. The deep abdominal bruising. The ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. Those marks said it all. No, Don had not been able to defend himself, to fight back. Charlie's own personal bodyguard, whose rock-steady nerves of steel had taken down countless criminals and fugitives, whose only release of tension during an op was a placid yet purposeful gum chewing . . . Don had been helpless before the onslaught of calculated, methodical brutality. Charlie felt his stomach clench again, and he quickly swallowed a handful of cold tap water to keep the bile where it belonged.

"Charlie? Are you okay?" The knock on the men's room door and Megan's voice brought Charlie back to the present.

"Uh, yeah. I'll be out in a minute." He splashed cold water on his face and turned off the faucet.

"David and Colby went to grab some lunch before starting in on the interrogation reports."

Charlie exited the washroom to find Megan leaning against the wall waiting for him. "I'm not really that hungry right now."

"Didn't think you would be." Megan studied him carefully. "Do you want to talk?"

"No, I . . ." Charlie started to make his way toward the bullpen and Don's desk. "Megan, was Don's weapon recovered from the scene?"

"No, I don't believe so. We recovered a large cache of guns, but they wouldn't have held onto something as traceable as a registered FBI sidearm."

"Not even to prove a point?" Charlie snorted. "Pistol-whipping Don with his own gun seems like it would fit right into their MO."

Megan reached out and rubbed Charlie's arm in an attempt to lend comfort. "Don's strong. He'll pull through this. You found him in time."

Charlie pulled away. "What kind of gun does Don carry?"

"A Sig Sauer. Charlie, what's wrong?"

Charlie laughed bitterly. "What's wrong? You're the behaviorist. What do you think is wrong? My brother has been missing for four days. He was bound, beaten, starved, dehydrated—tortured—and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it."

"But you _did_ stop it."

"Not soon enough. I just want to—"

"Want to what?"

Charlie took a deep breath. His current line of thinking was scaring him. He'd never thought of himself as having a dark side, but this . . . _bloodlust_ was the only word he could think of to describe it. "I want to go to the firing range."

"Firing range?"

"Yes!" Charlie all but shouted in his impatience. "I want a Sig Sauer and I want you to take me to the firing range." He paused and thought a moment. "Or maybe we can stop by Don's apartment. He might own some private guns, wouldn't he?"

"I don't know. Charlie, I'm not sure—"

"Megan, I need to do this. Please." The last word was almost a plea.

Megan pursed her lips. "Okay. But whatever you're going through, I'm not going to leave you there."

"Thanks."

* * *

After a brief debate on their way to the car, Charlie decided that it wasn't a good idea to stop by Don's apartment to find a firearm. For one thing, he'd have to borrow Alan's apartment key, and Charlie didn't want to have to explain to his father this overwhelming need to fire a gun. He'd have to ask Don . . . when he recovered.

The rest of the drive to the range was made in silence. Charlie knew Megan was worried, but he couldn't explain things to her right now. He hoped she'd understand. After the Lamberg case, he'd asked, "Have you ever wanted to kill somebody?" Her affirmative response had made him feel marginally better. Of course neither of them could act on this impulse. They were clear-thinking, civilized people. In some ways, that made what he was feeling worse. This wasn't a part of himself he wanted to acknowledge. Sure, Charlie and Don had had their differences growing up, and he'd wanted to "do real damage" to Don when they were kids, but that was kid stuff. This . . . He wanted to rip apart these thugs who had brutalized his brother, wanted to make sure there was nothing left to prosecute. Charlie pressed his lips together firmly to keep control of his emotions. Megan could help him talk it out later. Right now he had to shoot something.

Megan signed herself in, and upon producing his ID, Charlie did the same. Megan requested a Sig pistol from the armory, and after they'd received instructions and signed the requisite release forms, she led Charlie into the shooting gallery to two empty lanes halfway down the room.

Megan donned her eye and ear protection and waited for Charlie to do the same.

"Does Don wear protection in the field?" Charlie asked dispassionately.

Megan's brow furrowed. "It depends on the situation. When possible, yes. We all do."

"But he wouldn't have had protection when he made the . . . " Charlie quietly choked on the words, " . . . the exchange."

"Charlie, you will wear protection here," Megan said firmly. When Charlie did not move to take the specs and earmuffs, she added, "Don does."

Charlie nodded and sighed as he accepted the safety equipment, slid the specs over his eyes, and affixed the hard muffs over his ears.

Megan clipped a paper target to the conveyor, and with a push of a button sent the silhouette zooming to the far end of the lane. She demonstrated the proper grip and stance for pistol shooting, then handed Charlie the Sig. It felt strange in his grasp. Twenty-seven bones in each hand could create music that stirred the soul, paint breathtaking images of worlds both known and imagined, write exquisite equations in white-chalk-on-black-slate . . . could throw a baseball or dial a phone or pick notes on a piano or shuffle cards or clap a man on the back.

Or grasp mere ounces of metal and gunpowder to cut short a human life.

Charlie raised the gun and took aim. Gripping the gun in his right hand, supporting it with his left, he felt his index finger on the trigger. Three phalanges in that one digit, fourteen on each hand, twenty-eight total. He thought of Don's strong hands, currently immobilized by splints—three fingers on his right hand and two on his left. The doctor said they were fairly clean breaks and that regaining full mobility shouldn't be a problem. Charlie's right index finger twitched.

He'd thought it would feel awkward, like when Don brought him to shoot the rifle during the sniper case. But instead it felt . . . not good, exactly. Satisfying. Primal. As he squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times, his mind calculated muzzle velocity versus Kevlar density versus pounds per square inch of force it took to tear through flesh and bone.

Four, five, six. Nine rounds left. More than twice as many total as the traditional "six-shooter" he'd heard about watching old _Lone Ranger_ re-runs with Dad.

Seven-eight-nine-ten. How did Don do this? How did he hold so much power in his hands and not give in to the desire to obliterate the guilty? Don, who risked his life regularly to protect people who didn't even know he existed. People who didn't know how he'd protected his little brother from a grade school bully. People who didn't know that while Charlie was sitting at home filling out scholarship applications, Don was sitting in detention for picking a fight with someone who tried to booby trap Charlie's locker. It hadn't been easy being Don Eppes's brainiac brother, but sometimes—sometimes—it had been comforting being Don Eppes's kid brother. Of course, he'd never told Don that.

Eleventwelvethirteenfourteenfifteen. Don, who was lying in a hospital bed with broken ribs and a bruised kidney, beaten because he took action no one else could to save his brother.

Charlie pulled the trigger once more, and the hollow click confirmed what simple math had already told him: the magazine was empty. The paper silhouette zoomed toward him, and he felt Megan's hand on his shoulder.

"That's a pretty good grouping," she said as they removed their earmuffs.

"I missed," Charlie replied flatly.

"What are you talking about? I count fifteen holes, most in vital areas."

"What are the kill zones? The chest and head, right?"

Megan answered hesitantly. "Yes."

Charlie nodded. "I do better with rifles. Let's go again."

"Charlie, what—"

Charlie closed his eyes and clenched his fists to keep control of his temper. "Please, Megan. I'll explain later. I just—I need to put bullets in something."

Megan studied Charlie closely. "Because Don couldn't," she said quietly. He appreciated the understanding in her eyes.

Charlie pressed his lips together in a grim line and remained silent as Megan clipped another target to the conveyor and pushed the button. She had a fresh magazine ready and showed him how to load the new ammunition by slamming the mag into place. As Charlie reached for the newly loaded weapon, she asked, "You want to try it yourself?"

Charlie looked at her with skepticism.

"It's really satisfying," she said persuasively.

At Charlie's tight nod, Megan released the mag and handed Charlie both the gun and the ammunition. He positioned the magazine and slammed it firmly into the handle of the gun with the palm of his hand. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in a half-smile.

"See?" Megan smiled.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Charlie's stomach rumbled.

"You about ready to leave?" Megan asked as they pulled off their eye and ear protectors. "I need to be getting back."

"Yeah, sure. Hey, could you drop me at the hospital on your way?"

"Sure thing." Megan and Charlie signed themselves out and headed to the car.

As Megan pulled out of the parking lot, Charlie watched the afternoon pedestrians on the sidewalks, evidence that there was still normalcy in the world. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Megan gave him a sideways glance.

"How do you keep the anger in check?"

Megan smiled. "Oh, you haven't seen me when I'm really worked up, have you?"

Charlie looked at her.

"The Lamberg case, the wrestler who raped Karen Camden," her tone took on a momentary edge, "what those bastards did to Don . . . There have been plenty of times when I've wanted to rip a perp apart. Just ask Colby and David."

"Really," Charlie commented, mildly surprised.

"Yep. It's why agents usually travel in pairs."

"I had no idea."

"Well, it's not an official reason, but it's a sound one, psychologically speaking. Partners watch each other's backs, both physically and mentally."

"Huh."

They rode on in silence for a few moments, Charlie again watching the passing scenery. "Is this what Don feels when a case hits close to home?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Megan shrug a shoulder. "We all feel like this at one time or another. Certain things hit us a certain way, push certain buttons. But we learn to control it. To find an outlet to vent our feelings. A diversion to help us cope and to remind us that there is good in the world and that we're doing a good thing."

"How does Don cope?"

"I don't know for certain, but I do know he likes watching hockey games at your house." Megan's voice was kind, amused.

"Yeah." Charlie sighed.

"You know why he did it, don't you?" Megan asked. "Why he made the exchange?"

Charlie continued his study of the passing buildings. The hospital was only a few blocks away now. "He would have done the same for any hostage if there were no other way."

"But it wasn't just any hostage, was it?"

"No," Charlie answered softly.

"He did what he had to do to get you out alive and in one piece. And you found him before it was too late. You did what you do best, and you found him."

Charlie remained silent.

"Do you understand, Charlie? You found him. That's what brothers do: they watch each other's backs."

The corner of Charlie's mouth twitched. "Like partners?"

"Yeah, something like that."

They'd finally arrived at the hospital drop-off, and putting the car in park, Megan turned to Charlie. "A bit of advice?"

Charlie paused as he reached for the door handle. "Sure."

"Don't make this a habit."

"What?"

"This dwelling on the evil in the world. You're one of the most steadying influences is your brother's life. He needs you."

Charlie swallowed. "I know." And he did know. He'd worked the formulas that said so.

"I mean it, Charlie. You and your dad and people like you are why Don does what he does. It's not easy to do when you're exposed to our work, but keep your sense of innocence."

Charlie smiled mischievously as he opened the door. "Innocence?"

Megan smiled back. "You know what I mean. Go." She waved a dismissive hand. "Talk math to him or something. Something normal. Something 'Charlie'."

"Spaghetti," Charlie replied as he got out of the car.

"What?"

"Sometimes you bend the spaghetti just to watch it break."

"I'm not even gonna ask."

Charlie smiled and waved as Megan pulled away, then turned toward the hospital entrance. Maybe Don would be awake and they could have lunch together. Protein shakes and a hockey game on the TV sounded pretty good, actually. And if Don wasn't awake, Charlie would just sit with him and know that he was going to be okay. That would be good, too.

_finis_


End file.
